


Catch Me If I Fall

by Sh3rlockHolm3s



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: After the Fall, Angst, Loss, Post-Reichenbach, Puzzles, Reunion, Riddles, Sadness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-24 17:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2589374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sh3rlockHolm3s/pseuds/Sh3rlockHolm3s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story takes place after “The Reichenbach Fall”. John is grieving over the loss of his friend Sherlock Holmes. But his life takes a dramatic change when he finds his friend’s phone which has been forgotten at the rooftop of St. Bart’s Hospital. A little puzzle has been left behind and maybe everything isn’t as hopeless as it might seem?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling Is Just Like Flying

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!  
> I will hopefully update this story every weekend.  
> Have fun reading!

_„Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”_   
_“Do what?”_   
_“This phone call, it’s … It’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”_

The words echoed in John’s head over and over again, whirling through his mind.  
“Leave a note when?” He tried to remain a calm presence but his quavering voice betrayed him tremendously.  
A few long seconds of silence followed with John still trying to find out where all of this was going. He wanted to make it all stop. He wanted to prevent his friend from falling. But he was at a loss of words.

_“Goodbye John.”_

“No. Don’t-“. It was less than a whisper but it didn’t matter anyway. Nothing mattered anymore except- “SHERLOCK.” Now he screamed. His own squeaking voice drowning everything else out.

But it was too late.  
 _Too late._  
It’s funny how minutely his mind observed everything, every little detail that was burned into his mind like a brand mark, as if to make sure he would never stop remembering the worst seconds of his life.  
The spreading of the detective’s arms, like if he was just about to soar far away instead of dropping on the ground, the fluttering of his coat in the wind, the way his arms and legs struggled for a halt while rushing through the cold air.  
John felt horror-struck. He had no control over himself as he suddenly found his numb legs moving into his friend’s direction. His mind was spinning, there was not a single clear thought, just something hammering inside of his head and chest. Was it his heart beat?

He didn’t know what hit him as he all of a sudden found himself on the ground. His head ached like hell. He groaned in agony. A few seconds passed by until he finally got up again, still unsteady on his feet but not wasting one more look at that cyclist who had bumped into him and smashed him on the ground. Now, of all times!

“Let me through! Please! I’m a doctor.” He cried out but when nobody seemed to let him through, he tried it another way “Please. He’s my friend.” He stumbled again and again. “John, pull yourself together!” he harassed himself harshly while trying to make his way through the little crowd that was already gathered around the detective.  
Like in a rush, like in a trance, John kneeled down next to his friend, almost plopping on the cold ground. Reaching out to Sherlock’s wrist, he blended out everything else around him. The screaming shocked people, trying to get him away, and the paramedics rushing in. Everything around him disappeared in an instance.  
He felt his chest tighten and his mind going blank. There was no pulse. No pulse.  
“God, no.”  
Now he let them. Let that woman behind him grab him harshly on his arm, pulling him away. Let them get Sherlock on the mattress of the ambulance. Let them get on his feet; let them get Sherlock out of his sight.  
Though his eyes followed every move the paramedics made he could not understand.  
Couldn’t understand, couldn’t take anything in, he couldn’t feel.

 

Once in a lifetime Sherlock allowed his mind not to think straight. If he let just one single rational thought cross his mind he would end up … yes, end up doing what? And that was exactly the point. He did not know. He did not know what his next step should be. He had laid everything on the line and yet lost.  
Having reached, an impasse, the point of no return, he knew no other way out but taking the fall.  
He swallowed hard, concentrating only on the little spot on the pavement. Sherlock reminded himself that this was his solely purpose he followed through with all of this. And it was worth it. He’d do anything in his power to save the, from far away seemingly small man, who now looked up to him, disbelief written all over his face.

  _“I’m a fake.”_  
 _“It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”_  
 _“This phone call, it’s … It’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”_

 The hints were so easy to deduce, so easy to understand and yet he knew that nothing was going to become easy. Not as he watched his friend, his one and only friend, clinging desperately to every word he was saying.  
“You’re a soldier, John. You’re strong. Remember, you went through worse?” Sherlock pleaded silently in his head.  
“Goodbye John.”  
He gave it two more seconds until he threw his phone away. With a little bounce it landed next to his feet, only a few meters away.

He did not take a look back, did not waste a single glance at the dead corpse of Moriarty nor at the threateningly faraway pavement beneath him.  
His arms were spreading out naturally, his eyes focusing solely on the blue, clear sky above.

_Falling is just like flying except there is a more permanent destination._

His hands and his chest were the first that reached the bottom of the truck. With a dump sound his whole body crashed into the soft and caving mass of hay.  
Without bothering whether he was uninjured or not (not that it would have been severely anyway, the hay was after all comfortable enough) he jumped off the track, plopping on the ground in an instance. A few guys from the homeless network were running out of their hidings, appearing as if out of nowhere, crowding and shielding him. He recognized a few familiar faces. There were Jack and Scarlet. And a bit further away, hiding and peaking out behind a corner, Jimmy, the cyclist.  
While the detective skimmed over all of the faces, taking in as much data and information as possible he pulled out the rubber ball of his pocket pressing it under his arms. It would help to slow down his pulse immediately. One of the homeless men splashed fake blood all over him.  
All of this had happened in no more than a few seconds. It all went so fast, almost too fast to perceive anything, but still fast enough for Sherlock to close his eyes and put on a motionless and vacant expression.  
And then he perceived a strangled, shaking voice.  
 _“I’m a doctor. Let me through.”_  
He wished he had something to cover his ears with.

_“He’s my friend. Let me through. Please.”_  
There was a gentle touch on his wrist, by increasing the pressure, Sherlock noticed that John tried to take his pulse. It felt warm and pleasant on his too cold skin but then his friend’s fingers began to shack and slipped away.  
 _“God, no.”_  
Guilt overwhelmed Sherlock like a wave. He tried not to swallow or show any other indications of his consciousness and awareness.  
His nerves were strained to the breaking point. It was a thousand times worse than he had dared to believe.  
He wanted to reach out to John. Touch him. Tell him it’ll be okay. Tell him it’s all just for his own good.  
But what choice did he have? One visible hint and it would all be over. Three lives were on the line. There was no way he could risk it.  
Hands were suddenly all over him, putting him gently on the mattress. Paramedics were surrounding him. The heat and comfort of John’s body disappeared. His voice faded away.  
 _"Find the note, John“. Find my note. You are capable of it. I place all my trust in you.”_ Sherlock’s last thoughts flashed through his mind before he was being rushed around the next corner, leaving John Watson and his whole existence behind.


	2. Missing You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is a quite short one but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless.

“You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm, there were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so there. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.” John’s voice cracked once again. He swallowed and tried to suppress a sob.  
But somehow it felt good to relieve his entire burden and pour out his heart, although he knew there was no one who was listening to his unrehearsed, spontaneously, fucked up speech. It didn’t matter. It may have just been a cold stone he was talking to but at this very moment it meant the world to him. He patted it once, twice and miraculously he didn’t even feel ridiculous.  
He only wished it would have been Sherlock instead of a black, shiny headstone.  
There were so many questions left unanswered, hanging in the thick air but he didn’t dare to speak them out loud. Too afraid there was no answer. Too afraid reality might finally hit him and leave him lost, cold and alone in this world again. He focused his eyes one last time on the black, huge grave stone with the letters of his friend’s name printed on it, nodded shortly while braving himself like a soldier was supposed to and walked away, leaving the graveyard and Sherlock Holmes behind him.

 

It almost physically hurt as he entered the flat of 221B Baker Street. He felt the absence immediately. The empty rooms which made him feel so alone. No, not alone but _lonely_.

Most of all it was the little things he missed.  
He would have never guessed that the simple sight of lacking human bodies in the fridge could make him feel depressed, finding disappointingly nothing but healthy, tasty food. He missed the bullets flying through the air and hitting the poor wall, the annoying shouts of “I’m bored.”, “Shut up! I need to think!” or simply “John?” and the way Sherlock would sneak up from time to time behind him and startle him, just to crack up laughing like a 5-year-old at John’s reaction. He missed Sherlock’s amazing beautiful eyes, lighting up when solving an especially difficult case and hunting a murderer down, with John following his every step, like a loyal puppy. He missed his friend’s ability to show off in the most outrageous moments. John laughed, thinking back how Sherlock almost desperately sought for attention and praise and lived for the short little moments John complimented his mind-blowing intelligence. The detective had never made words about it but secretly he had enjoyed every second of it, John knew it.

The doctor sighed, what was the use of wallowing in memories? But still, it was so hard to let go …

_The rush of adrenalin. The thumping heartbeats in their chests. The smell of fear and sweat, hanging in the air. The feeling of a loaded gun in his pocket and a loyal companion on his side. The black coat. The blue scarf. Those cheekbones. The silly hat. John grinned at this memory. The little smile on the detective’s lips you only got a sneak peek at so rarely. Exchanging glances. His dazzling eyes .Ice blue with green sparkles …_

At first John was confused about the wet liquid on his face but then he realized he had indeed started to cry. A gut-wrenching sob escaped his lips, making his shoulders shake and his eyes tearing up even more. With one hand clasped around his body protectively and with the other one brushing the tears away hastily, he rocked forth and back like a baby. It was already early in the morning when he finally managed to pull himself together, climbing the stairs up to his bedroom and letting himself plop on the cold but cosy mattress. He had spend most of the night hunched up on the sofa, staring absent-minded at the green arm chair from afar, as if solely his intense stare would transport his best friend back to the place where he belonged. He only had to imagine it hard enough, hadn’t he?

Now, lying there on his bed, his legs felt numb, his stomach was begging for food and his head ached. But he did not give a damn. He only buried his head into the pillows, crying himself to sleep, hoping that his dreams were finally the way to escape reality.


End file.
